Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

He often had to use airports, but spent as little time in them as possible. He always arrived at the latest possible moment before take-off and always tried to use some subtle disguise, even if it was only the way he walked or the language or dialect he spoke. The Russian could converse fluently in six languages and get by to a greater or lesser degree in four others. Being a pro active kind of person, his best foreign language was English which he could speak in a variety of accents — American, Australian, South African and several British dialects.

Much of his work took him across Europe these days and he gladly travelled by road or rail, savouring the way boundaries had been all but flattened. Nowadays he could move virtually unchallenged and unobserved from country to country. A perfect scenario for someone like him.

For this particular job, he had travelled west across Europe by train; a fairly circuitous route from Moscow to Paris, then up to Caen in Normandy. From there he collected a hire car which had been pre-booked for him and drove to Ouistreham where he boarded the ferry Normandie to take him across to Portsmouth, England.

That Sunday afternoon, the same day on which Spencer and Cheryl had been arrested, the Russian had spent the six-and-a-half-hour crossing inside a reserved cabin, sleeping to the gentle roll of the Channel, eating sandwiches and drinking Coke bought pre-boarding from a shop in Ouistreham.

Even on a ferry he was cautious. He always booked a cabin and got into it as soon as he boarded, only leaving it when the boat docked.

However, that afternoon, curiosity got the better of the Russian. He had never sailed into Portsmouth before and wanted to see HMS Victory. Naval history was one of his many interests, and after he had completed his task in England, he promised himself a short break along the South Coast, exploring ports and naval dockyards.

As the ferry sailed into Portsmouth, the Russian found himself amongst many other passengers in the front lounge of the boat, watching the steady progress towards the dock and gawping at the Victory.

The Russian thought the ship was magnificent. He became engrossed in his thoughts about it and its history. When a man nudged him and said, ‘Fantastic, eh?’ the Russian immediately feared the worst. The fingers of his right hand instinctively curled into the palm ready to press the release catch on the stiletto secreted up his sleeve.

‘ Yeah, superb,’ the Russian responded. He eyed the man for some sign that this was where it was going to happen, but the man was now ignoring him, trying to peer over someone else’s shoulder.

The Russian edged away, dry-throated, into a position where he could see the man out of the corner of his eye.

He was very suspicious.

Who was the man? Was he testing him? Did he know who he was? Would he have to kill him?

A glimmer of relief stabbed the Russian when two young children and a harassed-looking woman came up behind the man, who picked up the youngest child and pointed excitedly to the Victory.

The Russian’s eyes closed briefly. Next time, he admonished himself, no matter what the temptation, you stay in your cabin. You were lucky this time; next time you might not be so fortunate.

He spun out of the assembly of passengers and slunk away.

The Ibis Hotel in Portsmouth was perfect for the Russian. Purpose-built and designed for people on the move, whether business or pleasure, it was soulless and sanitised. He registered using a different identity to the one he’d crossed the Channel with, then headed for the restaurant where he downed a quick meal and drank a pint of lager.

His room was neat, functional and clean. He showered, taking it long and hot, swilling off the dust and smell of travel, dried off and slumped into the double bed. Yawning, he refitted the knife to his wrist, then immediately fell asleep.

Just before midnight, a rustling noise awoke him. He came to quickly, his eyes darting around the room, his senses alert and prickling. He rolled off the bed and picked up the envelope which had been pushed under the door. He listened, ear to the door, but there was nothing to hear. Good. It meant the delivery boy had gone, was not curious.

Inside the envelope was a car key. On a small card was a make, model and registration number. A nondescript Ford. Nothing flashy. Again, functional.

The other item in the envelope was the most recent photograph of the man with whom he was required to do business.

A man who, within forty-eight hours, would be dead.

Danny had definitely decided to go back to her own place that night. Even if Geena’s ever-hopeful boyfriend had not been an issue, she had had enough of living out of a suitcase, sleeping in a single bed, not having her own toilet, not having the privacy to be a slob. She was too old and set in her ways to feel comfortable living like that. She needed her own space; room to get on with her life.

She was going to be brave and return home.

It had been a long day at work, complicated by Mickey Mouse and the redirected holiday jet landing at Blackpool Airport. But by 11 p.m. Danny had managed to get everything tied up.

‘ Mr Mouse’ had eventually decided to come clean about his true identity. He had been charged with Grievous Bodily Harm and was appearing in court in the morning. The file for that had been done and dusted.

Spencer had been refused bail and charged with offences relating to his behaviour on the plane. He had also been questioned extensively about the drugs in Cheryl’s suitcase, but denied all knowledge. Danny believed him. Cheryl, meanwhile, was as guilty as sin. She was going nowhere, either, other than in custody to the Magistrates’ Court on a charge of importing cocaine and assaults on the plane. The Crown Prosecution Service intended to oppose further bail for her, but Danny suspected the court would probably allow conditional bail — reporting to a police station coupled with confiscation of passport and strict residence and curfew impositions.

Danny actually felt sorry for Cheryl. She was obviously a mule, bringing in dope on behalf of some big-time dealer or organisation and getting nothing but problems for her reward.

Just after eleven, Danny left work and raced to a local pub where she knew her request for alcoholic beverage would be met with sympathy. She also found a couple of Detective Constables there and spent the next hour chatting to them… by which time the pub had emptied and the landlord wanted to know if they were staying put for a lock-in, or were leaving; if the latter, could he shut up shop?

They left. Danny walked to her car and got in. She rested her hands on the steering wheel and allowed her head to droop between her arms. Then she raised her face and brushed her hair back.

The moment of weakness had passed. The moment when she almost drove back to Geena’s instead of returning to her own house which she had not seen for three months… where tragic memories lurked… where someone had committed suicide in her kitchen.

It was 2 a.m. The sixth cigarette butt in a row was tossed out of the driver’s window on to the pavement.

Danny’s resolution to go home had deserted her like a rat from a sinking ship when she drove her new Mazda MX-5 into the street where her house was located. She had parked directly outside the semi, not even daring to pull into the driveway.

She had rolled the window down and lit a cigarette, drawing the heavy smoke deep into her lungs. She stared at the house, illuminated by the fluorescent street-light. Nothing had changed, other than the addition of a For Sale sign embedded in the front lawn. No prospective buyers had been to view the property. It was probably still too soon. The story was still fresh in everyone’s mind. The illicit love affair. The suicide when Danny ended it. The shotgun in the mouth. The brains blasted into the fridge. The revelations in the newspaper afterwards — another smut-scandal in the police. The media lapped it up. Photographs of the wronged wife. Danny, the Scarlet Woman (even invited on to a morning TV chat show!). Jesus, it had been completely horrendous. Then the funeral — not attended by Danny. The inquest… all major life-shattering events, the ramifications of which still bubbled on. Danny still faced the prospect of internal discipline proceedings for bringing the Service into disrepute, amongst other things.